by Jen Thorpe
‘I’m sorry I chickened out there with the family history thing. I guess I just feel like that’s not my story to tell. At least not yet. Not to CIL. Is that okay?’
He nodded. He’d forgiven her before she said anything. She just had to look at him.
‘Final question: What makes your feelings a phobia, and not just a normal fear?’
They sat in silence.
‘I guess with yours it’s because it’s stopping you from driving. It’s preventing you from living a part of your life that you really want to live. It’s not like you’re saying “Ooh, driving is so scary” and then still doing it. You’re not doing it. But you’re thinking about it all the time.’
‘Yes.’
‘And for me?’
‘Well, it’s that you’re alarming your house. You’re spending all this time and energy making yourself “feel safe” but the more alarms you have the less safe you feel because you can’t ever just be in your house any more. You have to rush in and rush out, and can’t even pee in the night because you’d have to disarm your alarms. It’s taking too much of your time to feel safe. And in fact, you don’t.’
They eyed each other, their fears sounding different in someone else’s words. Summarised in a few sentences, they seemed more real and yet smaller and more manageable. As they wrote down their answers the wind picked up, blowing their cups over, the loud metal clang discordant against the sound of a million leaves stroking one another. Packing up the cups, they stood up, and walked back down to the real world without saying much at all. The rain was coming, and it changed the feeling of the air. Saying goodbye at the library was brisker than he would have liked, and Sam couldn’t shake the feeling of loneliness for the rest of the day.
15
Ruby
Hypengyophobia: Fear of responsibility
A gale blew sand up and down the street, coating everything in a reflective sheen. Pedestrians held skirts down and hats on. It was the type of windy day where there was no point doing one’s hair. Days like this seemed to make people grumpy, releasing them from the social conventions of polite conversation.
It was a Tuesday, and the second session at CIL was due to start at twelve. Clouds threatened to release a downpour but held back and hovered ominously over Devil’s Peak instead. The air smelled like the ocean, and trees dropped loose leaves from tiny stalks into the fray of swirling wind. A lone plastic bag flipped back and forth on a barbed wire fence, stretching and tearing with each gust.
Ruby, despite the odds, was in a good mood. Driving along De Waal on the way to the Centre she was cranking The Cardigans and tapping her hands on the steering wheel. She looked out quickly over the harbour and frowned at the two huge oil rigs ruining the view. She wished it wasn’t so windy, because she liked to open the window and feel the caress of the air on her cheeks as she drove.
Despite the stress of the days since the Minister had been reallocated, Ruby felt optimistic. She’d been swimming a lot, and the endorphins were keeping the fear at bay. Sending off the funding request for the next project – a study of the impact of tik on mothers and unborn babies during pregnancy – she felt convinced the Ministry couldn’t reject the request. It’d be too newsworthy a study to miss out on. Her energy was frantic, and she was going with it.
She swerved down past the hospital and parked opposite the Centre. Making a mental note to include costs for repainting the building in the next proposal, she stepped out of the car, her hair and skinny jeans holding firm in defiance of the gale blowing down the street. She reached back in for her bag, bending down to get it from beneath the seat.
‘It’s me,’ shouted a voice from behind her, ‘Nostradamus.’
Ruby turned to see Jericho, sitting next to the CIL entrance. Today he was wearing a collection of scarves and blankets draped over his shoulders as a king or emperor might. He was rarely aggressive, but he was one of those people that the wind made volatile. When Ruby greeted him, it was sometimes to a response of ‘Fuck right off and die’, or she received a ‘Good morning to you too, my lady’. It all depended on the day.
‘Nostradamus? Good to see you still alive and kicking. Any predictions for me for today? The weather? The stock exchange? Any new planetary shifts on the horizon?’
He sniffed at her sarcastic tone, and spat a large green globule of phlegm on the pavement. It was flecked with blood and, before she looked away, wobbled in the wind. Wiping his mouth, he said, ‘I do have some predictions, but you’re not going to like them.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Well, hurry it up then. I’ve got to get to work. No time to dilly-dally talking about things that might or might not happen to me. And don’t piss on the wall to make a point. We’ve talked about this.’
She made eye contact with him, his withered skin like biltong hanging from a hook. He really needed a bath and probably some multivitamins. She wondered how he got to be here. Where was his family? His eyes were glassy, pre-cataracts, and his right index finger was extended towards her, pointing directly at her chest, the nail yellowed and sharp. He had freakishly long fingers. Ruby recoiled, and recoiled at herself for recoiling.
‘Death is coming, sooner than you think. First financial worries, then death. But after that, it’s not too bad.’
He began to laugh, a cruel high-pitched cackle, and then to cough again, retracting his index finger to cover his mouth. Spitting another blob of phlegm, he opened his mouth to say more, but Ruby interrupted by thanking him for his advice and moving towards the patio. He unnerved her more than she should let him. Then she remembered a time when he’d told her it was the 1800s and he knew that because he’d had a head transplant, and she shook her head. He just called himself Nostradamus. What did he know?
She opened the door after several shoves with her shoulder. Nobody was in the office, which was unusual so late in the day. The reception phone was flashing with nine messages. Feeling a sense of impending dread, and wondering about Jericho’s predictions, Ruby pressed the button to hear what they were.
‘8.30. Ruby, it’s Mel. The trains aren’t working from Bellville because one of the cables got blown down. I’m heading to the taxis now.’
‘8.35. Ruby, it’s Welly. The taxis are completely full because there was some problem with the trains in Bellville. I’m heading to the bus terminus now.’
‘8.45. Ruby, it’s Fairouz. I was going to catch my usual bus from Bonteheuwel, but they are crammed full because all the taxis are full for some reason. I’m doing my best to get there soon.’
‘8.55. Ruby, it’s Mel. The taxis are also so full. I’m calling a friend to ask for a lift.’
‘9.15. Ruby, it’s Welly. The buses are also completely full. I’m calling my cousin now to see if she can help me.’
‘9.30. Ruby, it’s Fairouz again. I’m on my way. I managed to get a lift with someone from the coffee shop. See you soon.’
‘10.00. Ruby, it’s Mel again. I’m on my way.’
‘10.02. Ruby, it’s Welly. I’m coming.’
She sighed with relief that everyone had called and nobody had died, cursing Jericho and his mad predictions. Pressing the button for the last message, she stretched her arms over her head, feeling the stiffness from last night’s swimming in her shoulders. She took pleasure in the burn.
‘10.35. Hi, Ruby. This is Janet from the Ministry. Won’t you give me a buzz as soon as you can? I’d like to talk to you about the change in the minister, your recent proposal, and what we can do to improve relations between CIL and our team following the changes. Well … yes, get back to me and let’s go from there. I don’t want to say too much over the phone. These are sensitive times.’
The wind rattled the windows and Ruby’s heart pounded. Janet was the real deal. If she was calling it meant that discussions had already happened right up at ministerial level. Ruby sat down slowly at the desk, put her head in her hands, and began to talk to herself.
‘Ruby. You are going to get through this. Just breathe, and t
hink about what you are going to say. Sometimes it’s better not to say anything at all. But what if they think that’s because we’re avoiding the issue? Well we would be. Shit. It could be good news. How did Jericho know? Water under the bridge. It could mean the worst. It could mean … SHIT!’
Outside, Jericho, listening from the street, shouted ‘SHIT SHIT SHIT’ back at her, his voice blown about the patio with the gale. He drummed on the wall to the sound of his own words. She closed the blinds in the reception area and swivelled the chair round and round until it was at its highest level and her feet weren’t touching the floor. It made her feel even smaller and more powerless. She closed her eyes for a few minutes.
Eventually, feeling strong enough to get up, she went through to the kitchen and made herself a coffee, sitting down at the table and sipping it slowly. A weight on her chest made her breath shallow and sharp. She heard the door wrench open, and stood to see who it was.
‘Ruby! Ag, I’m so sorry man. This wind is too much. It always causes problems with the bloody transport. How does the City think we’ll get around on days like this? They make a plan for the World Cup, but stuff us all on the usual days, hey. Sho, I feel like I’ve put my finger in a plug my hair is so blitzed every way. At least it hasn’t minced yet. Though I can see the rain …’
Mel suddenly realised Ruby was standing there pale and shaken, and stopped her monologue.
‘What happened?’
‘The Ministry called.’
‘Ooh, jinne. What did they say?’
‘They want to meet with me. It was Janet.’
‘Janet?’
‘Janet.’
‘Well. Um. Can I make you some coffee? Let’s sit down and we can talk with Fay and Welly.’
‘They were also delayed. I’ve just made one but I’m not sure whether to have another one. You know what they say about too much coffee … wait, what is it that they say again?’
Mel stopped her rant by placing both hands on Ruby’s shoulders, but as she didn’t know what to do next, reverted, in Fay’s absence, to mother mode.
‘Breathe, niggie. Breathe. We can wait for Fay and Welly to get here and then we can all talk. We can work this out all together. You are not alone. People will be arriving just now for the session. Let me see if I can organise some toasted sandwiches and juice from the Spar so we don’t have to fuss too much with that and then we can have some more time to talk. You just sit here. Or why not go up and lie down on your couch?’
Mel ushered Ruby towards the stairs, half wanting her upstairs so she could panic, and half worried about what Ruby was going through. This was really all down to her. There was nothing that Mel or anyone else could do. Ruby had to sort this out herself somehow. Mel tried to ignore the accusatory voice in her head. She knew Ruby wouldn’t do anything to harm the Centre on purpose.
‘Have a rest until Fay and Welly get here. It’s going to be fine. Keep on moving. Okay, here we go. Up the stairs. Here we go.’
‘Mel?’
‘Yes?’
‘What if … what if … what if?’
‘What ifs can be answered now now. I’ll see you upstairs.’
Mel watched her walk up, and when she was round the corner, sighed. She texted Fay and Welly to tell them to be prepared, then phoned the coffee shop, ordering all four of them a health muffin in solidarity. This was bad.
16
Nazma
Claustrophobia: Fear of having no escape and being closed in small spaces or rooms
That night, in bed, Nazma couldn’t stop thinking about the goodbye. On the drive back she and Sam hadn’t said much, but when she got out of the car at the library he gave her a look that made her want to get back in with him and run away somewhere. It was a look that was held for too long and had too much possibility. Instead she said, ‘See you next week’ in a strange voice and slammed the door closed. He knew she wanted to say something and wound down the window, giving her the chance.
‘Thanks for today,’ he said, and she replied ‘Thanks,’ tapping the bonnet of the car like a gaatjie telling the driver to go. When she turned away she forced herself not to look back until she heard the car engine turn on and Sam drive away. The tar around the library parking lot was crumbling and made a satisfying crunch as she walked home. A train passed by, the screeching and creaking seeming louder than usual.
Back at home her mother was watching the Days of Our Lives omnibus and cooking supper. The tang of toasting coriander seeds in the air took Nazma back to when she was smaller and used to stand at her mum’s feet, learning the rules of the kitchen. She breathed deeply and walked up to her mother, hugging her for the first time in a long while. Unaccustomed to the touch of another, her mother jumped and gave her a puzzled look. Nazma released her and looked out of the kitchen window, wishing her sister was still living under the same roof. They had been so much more like a family then. Now it seemed as if they were all just pretending.
Her father had returned from the kiosk, moaning about having to work there and Nazma’s shirking of her responsibilities. Eating off trays on their laps in front of the television, they spoke to each other in short bursts when the adverts were on.
‘Pass me the salt, Nazma. Did you have a good day?’
‘Yes. I went to the forest. It’s beautiful.’
‘Shhhh. The news is back on.’
Tonight we find that service delivery strikes are taking place across large portions of Limpopo following …
‘I should have added peas to this for sweetness.’
‘It’s good, Mum. Nothing wrong with it.’
‘No, it needs something. Maybe peas or a pepper?’
‘Will you two shhhh, it’s time for the weather.’
As we move towards the end of winter, Cape Town will be seeing heavy rain in the coming week.
When CSI came on, the conversation died completely while they absorbed predictable storylines and fluorescent scenes of murder. When the CSI on one channel finished, a spinoff of the series in a different garish town began on another. Nazma excused herself and went to bed. She watched the ceiling for ages.
The next morning the wind was pumping full force. Nazma lay in bed watching the tree outside being rocked to and fro. She knew the leaves that would fall down into the pool would send her father into a frenzy, and was glad he’d have something other than her to complain about for a change. Heading down to the train, she was blown back and forth as though walking into a giant fan. She’d promised her dad a half day’s work at the kiosk before the second meeting. At least it would be a distraction from thinking about Sam, for a short while.
It was a slow morning and hardly any people came to the kiosk. She spent the morning stacking samoosas on top of each other, attempting to build a pyramid, but hadn’t been able to get past the fifth level. As soon as she did, the bottom potato ones started to crack and ooze their filling, the texture of mud squelched between toes. She ate a few, but grew tired of the flavour and wiped the rest of the squashed potato away with a serviette.
The threatening rain meant that the afternoon would be a different story – the platform would be crowded and the train doors would release steamy pungent air each time they opened at the station. Sometimes the doors were jammed open by people dangling from them, determined to get home at high risk and low cost. At least the other passengers got some fresh air. So far nobody had ever fallen off at their station, touch wood.
She had her bag with the first activity notes in it with her, and all she wanted to do was read them. She’d been thinking more and more about driving since the walk in the forest, which she supposed was a good thing, apart from the constantly sweaty palms those thoughts produced. It was all mind over matter. If she didn’t decide, she wouldn’t do it. Now she just had to decide to decide.
She sat behind the bars and held out her arms, picturing holding a steering wheel. She checked her five points of reference, put her fantasy car into first gear and slowly released her foot from th
e invisible clutch. Even in her imaginary car she released it too quickly and stalled.
‘Talk about low self-esteem,’ she said to herself and, unknowingly, to Julius, who was sitting outside on the bench trying to think of things to say to her.
She’d tried to work out why she didn’t want to tell Sam the story about her mum. It was as though she was carrying it around like a stone, and it was sitting on her chest, right beneath her collarbones. She didn’t feel it was her story to tell, and yet it was her story. If it weren’t for what had happened they wouldn’t be living in Cape Town at all and she wouldn’t be in this damn kiosk. Nazma couldn’t believe that her family still didn’t talk about it, so many years later. If they did, perhaps things would be different. It was all of their story – Nafeesa’s too.
She tried to bring herself back to the present moment by reading the sensationalist newspapers. Today’s news headlines were just as insane as the previous days’, and instead of being repulsed and fascinated, Nazma just didn’t care. They were ridiculous: it was impossible to know what was real and what wasn’t anyway. The news was just a cracked mirror reflecting someone or other’s bad luck, exaggerated or not.
The wind and the sound of litter scratching around on the floor outside made her feel restless and angry. The minuscule kiosk was even more claustrophobic than usual. She felt the ceiling pressing in on her from above, and the walls seemed to be moving closer and closer from the sides. Her heart was racing, and she stood up to get some air around her because she couldn’t breathe properly; there was a loud ringing sound in her ears. Her fingers were shaking. Her body was sweating.
She burst from the door of the kiosk, unable to stay inside any longer, and fell to her knees, panting. Her hands grazed the ground, tearing her palms and embedding gravel inside them. She gasped and coughed, feeling as if a wet cloth was in her mouth. On the ground, stompies and pieces of a woman’s weave were blowing around her hands, tangling in her fingers. The thin, shiny artificial hair looked macabre. Focusing on it, she gradually forced her breath to calm.